Alistair opened his eyes and felt every bone in his body protest, as if he'd been chewed up by a stone giant and spat into a corner. The room he was in was small; the rough wooden walls reeked of mould and ancient winters, and a pale, anaemic light filtered through a window so filthy it barely revealed the sky.
Before he could complain about the throbbing in his temple, a small, frantic blur slammed into his chest. Lucius threw himself at him with the force of a catapult bolt, his thin arms squeezing him in an embrace that smelled of fear and relief.
– By all the gods in heaven, lad! – Alistair wheezed, feeling the air vanish from his lungs and a sharp pang in his ribs. He tried to muster a smile, though his face felt like a mask of dried leather. – Steady on! If you crush my ribs now that I've actually survived, how do you expect me to carry the weight of my own legend? A bard can't bloody well sing about me if my lungs are punctured.
Lucius pulled back, wiping his face with the sleeve of what remained of his tunic. He explained, through sobs and rushed words, that they had escaped through the sewers while the tower collapsed over their heads. They were now hiding in a tavern whose name appeared on no official map – a hole lost in the folds of the forest between Verdejante and Boschetto. Hector had described the place with a sort of twisted affection: a refuge for thieves, assassins, whores, and every other kind of shite that wandered through the kingdom's diseased veins.
Alistair sat on the edge of the bed, letting out a long sigh.
– Finally – he muttered, rubbing his stubbled chin. – A place where the air smells of reality and honesty. I feel right at home, Lucius. It's a blessed relief to be away from that irritating castle etiquette, where you have to ask permission before you're betrayed.
At the foot of the bed, a reinforced oak chest held what Marcus had managed to salvage from the disaster. Alistair felt the comforting weight of his sword as he strapped it to his waist, along with his dagger, guided by muscle memory.
As he descended the staircase, which creaked with every step, the air grew thick. The tavern hall smelled of sour ale, peat smoke, and bodies that hadn't seen water in far too long. It was a den of shadows, but in the centre of the room, under the flickering light of a single tallow candle, the last members of the rebellion against the realm awaited.
Roderick kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, his gaze fixed on the door as if expecting General Salgado at any moment. Marcus occupied the space of two men, calmly wiping a smudge of dried blood from his axe. Orlan, despite the squalid setting, remained upright, his icy eyes analysing a worn map spread across the table.
And at the head of the table, Hector Duvall looked like a human ruin. The dressing on his eye was soaked with a bitter blackness, his face was a map of cuts and bruises, and one arm was held to his chest, immobilised by filthy rags. As Alistair approached, the leader of the Brigade raised a goblet of cheap wine with a tremor that wasn't from fear, but from suppressed fury – showing everyone that the dog's spirit remained intact, his gold teeth glinting in the gloom like small promises of vengeance.
Alistair dragged a chair across the rotting floorboards, the screeching sound echoing through the hall like a protest. The wine they served him was a murky broth that smelled of vinegar and despair, but Hector drank it as if it were the nectar of the gods.
– The tower fell, but the land is still ours – Hector said, his voice raspy, as if his vocal cords were coated in soot. – But a captain without men is just a madman with a piece of iron in his hand. The Mad Dog Brigade bled on those walls, and most of those who survived fled like rats to their holes. It's time to gather the pack.
He spat a clot of blood onto the floor and fixed his one good eye on Alistair.
– I need men who know the taste of gunpowder. For that, I need you to go to Boschetto. Look for a fellow named Silvio Cardo. The last I heard of him, he was trying to drown his sorrows and shorten his life with the worst wine the region has to offer. If he hasn't turned into a walking wine-skin yet, he's the man we need.
Alistair felt a twinge of weariness in his legs that had nothing to do with his wounds from the siege.
– Boschetto? – he grumbled, looking at the soles of his boots, which had seen better days. – For all that is sacred, Hector, the distance alone is enough to make me forget the sound of my own voice. My legs have served the kingdom more than enough these last few days.
– Speak to the innkeeper – Orlan suggested with a vague wave of his hand toward the bar, his tone devoid of any sympathy. – He has horses in the stables that he lends to those who don't ask questions. They aren't war-steeds, but they'll get a man to its destination without him having to crawl through the muck.
The mention of horses brought Alistair a sudden memory that tightened his chest. He remembered Sarcasm, his loyal and eternally bored horse, whose temperament was as difficult as his name. The poor beast was likely being ridden now by some Aurelian sergeant with no sense of humour – or worse, serving as a feast for the crows beneath the ruins of the Brigade's fortress.
– Sarcasm would have hated this place – Alistair murmured to his goblet, with a hint of melancholy. – He always had a refined taste in stables... but anyway... – he stood up, feeling the weight of his armour and sword across his body. – At least I won't have to wear out the rest of my boot leather on the road to Boschetto. If this Silvio Cardo fellow is as hard to convince as this wine is to swallow, I'm going to need every bit of energy I can save.
Alistair swirled the wine in his goblet, his eyebrows knitting together in an expression of sudden recollection. The name 'Cardo' wasn't an unfamiliar sound; it had the echo of moth-eaten tapestries and dust-covered crests.
– Cardo... – Alistair muttered, his gaze lost in the shadows of the ceiling. – I've heard that name in taverns where they tell tales of mouldy glories. They say they were of a blue-blooded lineage, lords of lands that time and bad luck devoured until nothing remained but misery and wounded pride.
He tilted his head, studying the brutish figure of Hector Duvall, whose hands looked carved for an axe-handle.
– How does a mercenary who smells of gunpowder and stables like you know a nobleman, Hector? – Alistair inquired, with a sceptical half-smile. – Don't tell me you learned your courtesies in ballroom halls.
Hector let out a raspy laugh, a dry sound that ended in a painful cough.
– You see what you want to see, Alistair – Hector said, his voice low and harsh. – But blood is a funny thing. I too was born with a surname that opened doors in Aureliana. I was raised among courtesies, palatial intrigues that smelled of cheap perfume and smiles that hid daggers. I loathed all of it. True life, the life that makes the blood pulse, isn't found in poems; it's found with a steady sword in one hand, a full flagon in the other, and a woman in the third arm to keep the nights warm when the winter bites.
Hector's gaze hardened, becoming as cold as the iron of the bombard that had blasted him from his home.
– My hatred for Lorenzo Verdegrande isn't just about politics or crowns. That silk-wearing cunt destroyed the only thing that was truly mine. He tore down the fortress I built with my own effort, with the sweat of my men and the steel I won, far from my family's inheritances.
A heavy silence followed, thick with the quiet fury of a man who had lost his kingdom of stone. It was then that Lucius took Alistair's hand so they could leave the tavern before Hector's rage turned toward his companions. In the tavern courtyard, under the veil of a grey morning threatening rain, Alistair tightened the cinch of the saddle on a short-legged horse with a suspicious look in its eye, staring at the horizon where the road to Boschetto vanished among the dark trees.
– Well, little one – Alistair said, mounting with a groan of protest from his joints –, let's go find this fallen noble. But if he's spent the last few days staring at the bottom of a bottle, I hope to Solarius he still remembers which end of the sword to hold. Recruiting a drunk is bad enough; recruiting a drunk who cuts himself would be the end of my bloody patience.